Whisper
by T'eyla Minh
Summary: Christine is travelling to England by boat and remembers the events that led to her decision - some re-telling, some new stuff.  E/C in passing, quite angsty.  7th and final chapter - the end of Christine's journey... or is it?
1. Chapter I

**WHISPER**

_**Summary: **Christine travels to pastures new and remembers moments past._

_**Rating: **PG/K+, as ever. I don't think angst should ever be G._

_**Genre:** Angst, for the most part._

_**Setting****/****Spoilers: **This takes place about a year after Don Juan Triumphant and all subsequent drama thereafter, and is basically your bog-standard 'what happens next' story. Elements of Leroux, Kay and ALW (and a bonus addition from the 25th anniversary gala!), but quite emphatically not the 2004 movie…_

_**Pairing: **Erik/Christine, natch, though it's only implied…._

_**Disclaimer: **The characters belong to Gaston Leroux (and Susan Kay), and the song belongs to Katie Melua. I own nothing except the idea and the hopeful amalgamation of words into meaningful sentences._

_**Author****'****s ****Notes: **This was intended to be a short songfic to "I Cried For You" by Katie Melua, from her second album, Piece By Piece. It's a lovely song and I wanted to write a POTO ficlet for it the very first time I heard it. That ficlet turned into a full-length chapter story, but the main themes remain. I can't post the lyrics any more thanks to FFN guidelines, but a quick search should find them..._

_In terms of characterisation, it suited the story to write a slightly darker, stronger, more mature Christine, whilst trying to stay true to character. Here's hoping it works… Erik appears very little in this story, but when he is mentioned it is with the ALW-inspired half-mask. Whilst I appreciate this goes against the grain of Leroux, I've always thought the half-mask was somewhat more enigmatic, and it's always how I picture Erik in my head. That being said, Christine is also ALW-inspired in appearance – that is, she's a brunette._

_It's also the very first time I've written Nadir. I'm in the process of re-reading Kay for the first time in years, but I apologise in advance if his character seems off._

_MANY MANY THANKS to Eni for the beta – despite knowing nothing about the fandom. :P_

_I'm still working on Sweet Intoxication, for those following it (anyone left?), and hopefully there won't be too many chapters left before it's finished. I changed my ideas for the ending ever so slightly, and I'm determined, at least, to get it done and dusted… eventually. The delay on that story is heinous and I can only apologise. In the meantime, I'm writing this to get back into the flow of the fandom and, well, because I want to. :)_

_Feedback, as ever, is greatly appreciated._

**Whisper**

Chapter I

The small passenger ship was vastly different from the luxurious surroundings she had grown accustomed to, with its hard, wooden benches and weather-worn exterior. It was manned by a small crew of equally weathered sailors, with coarse skin and even coarser language, but they kept to themselves and did not worry her. They were keeping the vessel moving, and that was the important thing.

Christine stood at the stern of the boat, staring out to sea. The mainland of France had disappeared an hour ago into the distance, the perfect blue sky marred by slowly gathering clouds. There was very little to see at all, in fact, but she was not interested in the view. The greying sky and the slight chill to the air were enough to numb her outward senses, and she was left instead to her thoughts. It was a luxury she had been unable to indulge in before now, and she savoured it.

Things had changed significantly in Christine's life over the past year. She reminisced with a certain bitter fondness – how paradoxical! – when she thought about the girl she had been. There were times when she loathed herself – that naïve child so unaware of the greater world – and others when she longed for simpler days, when the most important thing in her world was performing. It was nothing but make-believe on a grand scale, and Christine had lost herself to make-believe from a very young age.

It had been time to face the harsh reality of the adult world. It was with only a little reluctance that she had acted upon this realisation; she was heading to England, and she was doing so alone.

The journey had been a long time coming: months of planning after a swift decision. She had battled her conscience, and her own irrational fear of travelling by herself, before finally setting foot onto the deck of the passenger ship with a sense of indescribable relief. With the warning foghorn, she felt her worries and guilt melt away into the lapping sea below.

She was alone on the outer deck. There were very few passengers on board due to the weather, but the low hum of chatter had nonetheless been enough to send her outside. She found the company of other people increasingly frustrating, that of strangers even more so. Small talk seemed pointlessly inane, and in-depth conversations were exhausting.

Christine found the peace and quiet to be exactly what she had been yearning for. Peace; quiet; solitude; God forbid, to be _left__alone_. Since the unfortunate incidents at the Opéra Populaire, she had been coddled to the point of suffocation by everyone. Now finally able to breathe, she watched the sea foam and the path of the boat disappearing into the distance, and let herself remember the events of over a year ago without fear of interruption.

-w-

The moment she first saw Erik's face had haunted Christine ever since. The memory grew fuzzier with age, but in her dreams it returned, repeated and always slightly different, as though her mind were trying to make sense of what she had not comprehended at the time. She had relived it so often, but each time consistently failed to make the situation any better.

It had been unwise of her to take the mask as she had; she realised that the second it was in her hand. The white porcelain was stark between her fingers, bright and garish in the candlelight; on his face it had seemed less obvious against the pale skin. The full enormity of her actions dawned only when he turned on her, unmasked face full of anguish and rage, and she had clutched the precious object to her chest for fear of dropping it.

His face, she remembered with undeniable clarity, was not the frightening part. It was twisted and scarred, and the eyes were intense, but his features were distinguishable. She could still see the swoop of a cheekbone, the distinctive shape of his nose. It was his anger that had terrified her, so sudden was his reaction, and with that flash of fire in his eyes she had felt certain he would strike her – or worse, kill her. She had stared in horror, unable to look away. When he challenged her – "Is _this_ what you wanted to see?" – she could only flinch away in instinctive terror. It was an action which now, many months and a lifetime later, still made her heart contract uncomfortably with guilt.

Then Erik had recoiled inside himself, hiding from her. In the calm that followed, Christine had passed back his mask slowly, as though approaching a dangerous animal. If it was gratitude she saw next in his expression, it was gone just as suddenly…

The memory faded once more, and Christine sighed. That first encounter of his naked face had set the scene for all others to come. Christine felt certain that if Erik had only trusted her, she could have kerbed her instinctive reaction to recoil. Perhaps also if she herself had not used the tactic of unmasking him so childishly, things might have been different.

When he was calm, she had seen an undeniable beauty in his features. The unmarred side of his face showed definite signs of handsomeness, and of course, she had grown to learn that he was more than just a voice; that beauty, in fact, was not skin deep. He was fascinating and deeply intelligent, and with it, quite ingeniously dangerous. In their quieter moments, as he read to her or played the violin, Christine would watch him for as long as she dared before he noticed, and beneath the darkness and the torment, she wondered if his soul was pure; if she, in all her innocence, could make it so.

Of course, that had turned out to be a more-than-naïve assumption. She had never anticipated the 'accidents', nor his ultimatum – had never thought he could be so cruel or so heartless as to make her _choose_. Yet, despite it all, she had always intended to return one day and explain things. Her still-adolescent brain had been unable to fully comprehend the situation, and she vowed that when she was older and wiser, she would be able to articulate her feelings without crying like a child with a broken doll.

It had been a year since then, and Christine had changed significantly. She understood things better now than ever before. Perhaps the most awful thing of all was that she would never get the chance to return and explain as she wished. Then again, she had never really worked out exactly what she would say, or in what form. Should she apologise, or beg forgiveness? Should she demand to know the truth – that same truth she had once refused to accept?

Perhaps, she pondered, such things were best left unsaid – especially if she would never get to say them.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** This was the point when I realised it would be a chapter story. :P I think Christine's a bit too pleased to have some way of voicing her thoughts. I have visited the Palais Garnier twice in the course of writing this story (it's taken a few years to finish), in 2009 and 2011 respectively, and before then in 2007 (and also 2003, although I didn't go inside that first time). It's a truly inspiring place, and partway responsible for this story. If you do get a chance to visit, I can highly recommend it._

_In the meantime, a review or two would be absolutely lovely. I haven't written in this fandom for what feels like forever. :) (Anonymous reviews are turned off – sorry.)_


	2. Chapter II

_**A/N:**__ Apparently nobody wanted to review the first chapter of this, but I'm posting the second chapter in the hope people are reading it nonetheless… despite debating for some time whether or not to take it down entirely. Anyway, for those interested, this chapter sees more reminiscence from Christine as the reasons for her decision come to light..._

_One thing to note – even though I swore I would never, ever use anything from the 2004 movie as inspiration, I simply had to steal M. Reyer. ;)_

Chapter II

For the first month following the events under the Opera, things were perfect – perhaps too perfect – and Christine was happier than she had ever believed she could be. Raoul had insisted that she move into the east wing of his chateau, to make preparing for their wedding easier, and Christine had been more than willing to leave her small lodgings behind. She suddenly found herself in possession of the finest clothes she had ever seen, the best jewellery, the most exquisite shoes. Raoul spoiled her terribly, and she felt more than a little undeserving. She found it almost impossible to imagine that this lifestyle would continue, but as each day passed, she began to accept it.

Then, the dreams began. She had effectively blocked her experiences under the Opera from her mind, to the extent that she had practically forgotten what all the fuss was about. Then, suddenly and without warning, she was plagued with nonsensical and frightening dreams. She could make no sense of them at first; there were broken strands of music, the blur of a girl running in a stiff tutu, the distant glow of candles, and a dark sense of foreboding… It was only after several nights of increasingly similar scenes that something clicked inside Christine's sleeping brain, and she realised she was merely remembering. Yet, throughout, she never saw Erik in full view: he would always be a somewhat distant figure – hiding in shadows or half-hidden in the folds of his cloak – whom she was quite unable to reach. Always, he was silent.

The management allowed Christine a month to recuperate from her ordeal, but within a fortnight she was itching to return to the Opera. It was with some reluctance that Raoul allowed her to return, and he ensured that she was always accompanied by a chaperone. Christine found this incredibly tiresome, but conceded to the precaution if it meant she could get back to rehearsing.

One week after her return, Christine's world changed again. When she arrived that fateful morning, she did not anticipate how a few relatively simple events would subsequently start to spiral beyond her control; perhaps if she had known, she would never have left the house at all.

She had experienced a fretful night's sleep and awoken exhausted; all subsequent morning activities seemed destined to go wrong. She had broken her hand-mirror, a gift she had received as a child, and despite not being superstitious about such disasters, Christine couldn't help but wonder afterwards if that had been the cause of it all.

She was late for breakfast, and consequently it was cold and intolerable. Raoul's carriage had been in a minor accident that morning because of the overnight rain, which had made the roads dangerous. It didn't take long to repair it suitably for travel, but the journey was slow and careful as a result, and when Christine finally reached the Opera she was very relieved to be out of the vehicle, which had juddered ominously on several occasions.

She arrived flustered due to her unintended lateness. She had dropped her gloves in a puddle outside the building, and a storm was threatening in the clouds overhead, which did nothing to lighten the dark mood she had been in since waking.

She took a deep breath once inside the foyer, and tried to calm herself. M. Reyer would be quite displeased at her tardiness, but there was nothing to be done about it now. If she could regain control over her frayed nerves, she could at least perform adequately in rehearsal.

As Christine made her way to the auditorium, a gaggle of ballet rats scampered down the main staircase on their way to their rehearsal room, almost knocking her off balance in their haste. She huffed, rearranging her skirts, and then noticed that one of the girls had dropped a newspaper. They were already long gone, so Christine made no effort to chase after them. Besides, the paper had more than likely changed hands several times that morning.

She climbed a few steps to reach for the paper, intending to read it later, but stopped in her tracks as a headline on one of the open pages caught her eye. It was so brief and succinct that its meaning could not be misinterpreted:-

_**ERIK EST MORT!**_

Her hand froze mere inches above the newspaper – which she had now identified as _L'Epoque_, and yesterday's edition by all accounts – as the words coalesced in her brain. Her knees became weak, and she found herself swooning as she tried to take another step forward and felt her legs buckle. Somehow, she managed to break her own fall, landing uncomfortably on the steps.

With those three simple words, it was as though Christine's world had shattered into a thousand pieces. She reached for the paper and snatched it up, staring at the headline as if to confirm its existence. The story was squashed into the corner of the page, like an afterthought to the final publication. It was not even an obituary, merely an ordinary-looking article. Over and over, she read the black print of the headline, unable to believe it was true. She skimmed the short article for some semblance of an explanation, just barely comprehending what it was saying, but there was nothing to indicate how Erik had come by his fate. Indeed, it seemed a common consensus that he had merely vanished; for all intents and purposes, however, he might as well have been dead. There was jubilation, it said, at the now-silent Opéra Garnier.

Christine was only aware that she was crying when a small, dark stain appeared on the paper before her, followed by another, then another. As her tears soaked through the thin page, Christine dropped _L'Epoque_ into her silk-dressed lap and allowed the grief to overcome her.

She did not know how long had passed before Meg found her, sprawled ungainly on the staircase. Meg's gentle, concerned touch to her shoulder roused her from her grief-ridden stupor; she became distinctly aware of the cold marble beneath her cheek, cooling her hot, tear-streaked skin. As Meg coaxed her to stand, the newspaper dropped unceremoniously from Christine's lap and landed at Meg's feet, its terrible headline uppermost.

"Oh..." said Meg, her gaze alighting on the fallen paper.

Christine managed a weak nod. "Am I the last to know?" she asked.

Meg fidgeted uneasily. "Mama and I… we were going to tell you, Christine. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

"How…" Christine trailed off, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. "How did it happen?"

Meg shook her head. "I don't know. Nobody knows. Mama thinks the mob may have…" she didn't finish her sentence, as Christine flinched, closing her eyes and turning her head away. "She is so _angry_. She thinks it such a terrible injustice. She has even hidden the key to Box Five, and M. Andre is _furious_ with her…"

Christine was barely listening to Meg, her mind already imagining the horrible fate that Erik might have suffered at the hands of the mob. Her eyes filled with tears once more and a sob escaped her throat, as she pressed her palms to her face and began to shake, trying to stifle her cries. Meg approached tentatively and put her arms around her friend.

"There, Christine… don't cry. There's no need to be upset – it's all _over_ now…"

Her lack of comprehension only upset Christine all the more. She shook in Meg's arms, who uttered soothing noises and attempted to calm her down. The distant chatter of the _corps_ became apparent, followed by Antoinette Giry's thunderous shouts.

"_Mon dieu_, I have never seen such a display! Three hours of practice tonight, _mes cheries, _and not a second less! I expect a much better performance tomorrow morning!" Her cane slammed down with an almighty 'crack', which resonated around the building, and the crowd of dancers came scurrying past once more, paying no heed to Christine's plight. They were followed by the ominous form of Mme. Giry, who did not seem at all surprised to find Christine in such a state.

"Meg," she instructed. "Leave her be." Meg released Christine a little reluctantly and stepped back. "Please, go and ensure those girls are rehearsing."

Meg nodded politely and followed the dancers at a brisk pace, leaving Christine alone with her old mentor. Mme. Giry stooped to take up the newspaper, which she folded neatly and held behind her back, concealing the offensive headline from Christine's view.

"So," said Antoinette, "I see you have read the news." Christine, now spent of tears, nodded her assent. Mme. Giry shook her head sadly. "I only wish you could have heard it from me. He would have preferred it that way."

Christine managed to find her voice, which was now harsh and trembling. "Were you… very close?" she asked. Mme. Giry's past had always been something of a mystery, and Christine was hopeful that she was her last connection to the equally mysterious Phantom.

Antoinette smiled slightly. "As close as it is possible to be to a man so elusive," she said, "but I have known him many years. He was… almost like family to me. I wish Meg had known him."

"Do _you_ believe he is dead?" Christine asked, hopefully.

Her old mentor did not want to give her false hope. "I do not know. As enigmatic as he was, even Erik was only mortal…"

That didn't particularly answer the question, but Christine understood nonetheless. There was much she wanted to ask of Mme. Giry, but she could not find the words, her brain so thoroughly saturated that nothing intelligible would form.

Distantly, the sound of the orchestra rehearsing could be heard, followed by the slamming of a door. Christine came momentarily back to her senses, remembering why she was even in the building at all, and M. Reyer emerged, muttering under his breath. He rounded the corner and stopped in his determined tracks upon sight of the ballet mistress and the Opera's latest troublesome prima donna.

"Ah! Christine Daaé, where have you _been_? I _will not_ tolerate this sort of laziness… Now, kindly proceed to the auditorium and join the chorus for rehearsal. We are midway through Act 3."

Mme. Giry intervened, standing in front of Christine as she made her way forwards. "I'm afraid, M. Reyer, that Mlle. Daaé has received some rather unsettling news…" She handed the newspaper to the maestro, turned it to the correct page and tapped her finger on the small article. He blanched a little at the name, but realisation dawned on his features.

"Oh. I see."

"So perhaps it might be permissible for her to be absent from today's rehearsal?"

"I… yes, of course." M. Reyer tucked the paper beneath his arm. "But I will expect her back within a week."

Christine did not take kindly to being talked about as though she were not present, and stepped out from behind Mme. Giry, her grief momentarily forgotten. "I am perfectly capable of rehearsing, M. Reyer!" she said, at once realising the ridiculousness of the statement. Her voice was in no fit state to sing. Sighing, she conceded defeat. "All right. You will see me in a week's time – if not earlier."

With that, she walked from the building, her head held high.

The rain which had threatened that morning had arrived with a vengeance whilst she had been indoors. Christine paused at the threshold of the Palais Garnier and stared through the torrent, wondering how she would get home. The carriage was due to return at the end of rehearsal, along with her chaperone, and Raoul would never permit her to travel by public carriage. Besides, there were none to be seen; the streets and pavement cafés were deserted.

Christine resigned to walk, not bothering to cover her head; the feel of water drumming on her scalp gave some relief, creating a rhythm to her mind's chaos. She hoped that the journey home would give her some time to collect her thoughts, and if not, then the storm would easily hide her tears.

-w-

She could remember that morning as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday. To think about it again brought fresh tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back. Now was not the time for grief; she was still too close to home. The time for grieving fully would come soon enough.

As if to mock her plight, the grey clouds which had slowly gathered above her head began to rain upon her, a light shower spotting the deck. Christine pulled the hood of her cloak up to cover her head and adjusted the scarf around her neck, then concealed her hands in her furred muff. She had dressed appropriately for the journey, despite the clement weather at the outset, for which she was glad.

She cast her eyes briefly towards the heavens.

"Even the sky is crying for you, my friend," she said. "In a few hours, I will be able to join in its grief."

She swallowed the lump in her throat uncomfortably, letting a wave of sadness wash over her. She hoped that Erik, wherever he might be, would understand her reluctance to let go. Christine needed to be alone; she knew that Erik, of all people, would comprehend that.

_**A/N: **__This chapter was borne out of my aforementioned 2007 visit to the Palais Garnier when I was sitting down on the grand staircase to rest my aching bones, and noticed how cold the marble was. The image of Christine discovering the news of Erik's fate within his home struck me as being incredibly poignant, and that's where the scene came from…_


	3. Chapter III

_**A/N:**__ Okay, seeing as it's taken me the best part of four years (in sporadic bursts) to bring this story to completion, I am now in the mindset of just wanting to post it, whether people are reading it, enjoying it, hating it or otherwise. Simply as a matter of principle, you understand. Updates will therefore be fairly regular, and hopefully I'll get the entire story up before Christmas. Many thanks to CaptainHooksGirl for the vote of confidence, __and if anyone else wants to come out of hiding, please do…_

_At this point, I have only managed to include four lines of the song I'm basing this on… and they were both in the first chapter. In this instalment, I'm effectively hitting R/C on the head because the lyrics made me do it. No Raoul-bashing, though, I promise..._

Chapter III

Christine's envisaged future with Raoul had not been quite so eternal as she'd imagined. In retrospect, she realised she had been naïve to imagine her childhood romance would last forever.

After the news in _L'Epoque_, Christine's world became a strange, uneasy place. She did not know what to do with herself and no longer felt the same enthusiasm for her career as she had before. She returned to the _Opéra_ after a week, as instructed, but her performance in rehearsals was lack-lustre, almost disinterested. It seemed that without Erik's teaching – indeed, without his critical audience – Christine had no desire to succeed. Of course, M. Reyer could not understand her sudden change in attitude, and nor was she able to explain it. On more than one occasion he had snapped her out of a stupor, her mind elsewhere, with a sharp rap of his baton to the music stand and a terse "Miss _Daaé_!", only for her to drift off again mere moments later.

M. Reyer spoke with the managers. M. Firmin took Christine into the office he shared with M. Andre, and they politely suggested that she take some more time away from the _Opéra_ until she was feeling better. After all, he said, she had a wedding to prepare for, and would soon be a kept woman with duties besides her blossoming career. Christine had conceded wearily, all passion for argument drained from her exhausted mind.

The weeks that followed were dull, tiresome and endless. Raoul tried to keep Christine entertained with formal parties, dinners, social occasions, even occasional jaunts to the countryside, but she remained lethargic and unenthusiastic. The wedding drew ever closer, and Christine began to wonder if such a privileged life was really all she had thought it would be.

Raoul was becoming worried about her. She refused to discuss her feelings or even talk to him about what had happened that stormy morning, although he had his suspicions. After all, the news was common knowledge amongst the Opera's patrons. In trying to protect her from harm, however, he merely ended up stifling her. Christine felt coddled and suffocated, entirely unable to breathe, and her frustration finally came to a head one perfectly ordinary afternoon as she was being fitted – for the third time – for her wedding gown. She had not been eating as well as she should, and the dress had to be adjusted to fit her ever-decreasing frame.

The dress-maker was fussing, muttering, milling around her like a troublesome insect. Christine was prodded, poked and manoeuvred, all the while huffing impatiently and finding the entire ordeal thoroughly irritating. She shifted on the footstool she had been perched upon; the dress-maker accidentally jabbed her with a pin; Christine tore the veil from her head with a shriek and flung it across the room.

"Enough!" she cried. Her maid had gone to retrieve the veil, but was stopped in her tracks by Christine's irate cry: "Leave that infernal thing where it is!"

The dress-maker stood with her hands on her hips. "Mlle. Daaé, if you don't mind, there are a lot of adjustments to do… Perhaps if someone had been eating properly, I wouldn't have to keep taking it in!"

"I don't _care_ about the dress!" she said, angrily. She struggled to undo the tiny buttons at her back, but could not reach them. "Giselle, come and _help_!"

The maid looked uneasily between her mistress and the furious dress-maker, decided that Christine was the more terrifying of the two, and moved to help her with the fastenings.

"Be careful!" implored the dress-maker. "The Vicomte has paid a lot of money for that dress, _and_ for my skill. He will not want to see his bride in an ill-fitting garment on the day of the wedding-"

"There isn't going to _be_ any wedding!"

Christine was only aware of the words leaving her mouth after she'd said them. She had not given any thought at all to the impending ceremony, but now that the declaration was hanging in the air, she realised it was the truth. She could no more marry Raoul than she could climb a mountain; and both of those tasks seemed equally as impossible as the other.

The dress-maker broke the uncomfortable silence in the room. "But… no wedding?"

"No," she said, more calmly. "No wedding. I… I can't. I just can't."

At that moment, Raoul appeared cautiously at the door, having heard the to-do and come to see what the matter was. "What can't you, Christine?" he asked, worriedly, suddenly aware that he had committed the terrible crime of seeing his bride in her wedding gown before the event. "If the dress doesn't fit, we can alter it. There's no need to worry-"

"It's not that Raoul…" Christine stepped down from the footstool and stood before her childhood sweetheart, looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry… I can't marry you."

Silence fell in the large, airy room, as Raoul struggled to make sense of her words. Giselle was staring unabashedly at her mistress with her mouth wide open, twisting the previously discarded veil anxiously in her hands. The dress-maker collected her sewing things and hastily bustled the young maid out of the room, leaving the pair in privacy.

Raoul waited until the door was closed, and shook his head lightly, breaking out of his stunned stupor. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"What I say," she said, simply, then repeated: "I can't marry you." She sat on the footstool, resting her hands elegantly in her lap. The white silk of her half-finished wedding dress rustled with her every move. She fixed her gaze on her fiancé, her face emotionless.

Raoul approached her slowly, keeping his voice level and soft. "I understand, dearest. You're just nervous about the wedding."

"No, that's not the reason," she told him. "I just…" She tried to make sense of what she was feeling; aside from the frustration and irritation about the dress, there was something much deeper that had provoked her reaction. "I think I need to be on my own, for a while."

Perhaps Raoul understood; perhaps he did not, and was merely trying his best to humour her. Christine never did ascertain which was the case. Nevertheless, he gave a solemn nod. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know."

"I'm sure we can make some arrangements. There are some lovely flats in Paris, close to the _Opéra_."

She shook her head solemnly. "I've considered one before," she said, "but I can't afford it."

Raoul smiled a little. "You don't have to worry about that."

"I can't accept that, Raoul; you've already done so much for me."

He approached her quietly and bent to place a kiss to her brow. "Whatever it takes to bring you back to me, Christine…"

With that, he left the room, closing the door silently behind him.

-w-

Christine's decision to call off the wedding had seemed rash to Raoul, but that was only because she barely understood her own reasons for doing so. Mostly, she found the preparations tedious, and was beginning to realise that the life Raoul expected her to lead was in direct contrast to what she had anticipated. She had already met several of his high-class friends, and was acutely aware that their world was miles apart from her own. She didn't know about fashion or any of the expected topics of conversation she was supposed to discuss with the other wives, and would instead resolve to sit quietly at the dinner table or in the drawing room. Subsequently, they thought her sullen and ignorant, and spoke to her as to a child.

Christine found it endlessly frustrating. Raoul had tried to coach her in how things were done, and had even arranged for her to go out with another young woman, who had recently married one of his acquaintances, in the hope that having a friend would draw Christine out of her ongoing grief. Christine was sure to make it quite clear that she had a perfectly adequate companion in Meg, but Raoul was rather more determined that her friends should be separate from her life at the _Opéra_. Nevertheless, he allowed the friendship with Meg to continue, if only because it made Christine happy.

The biggest problem was that Raoul was finding it increasingly difficult to understand her sadness over Erik's demise. He had presumed – perhaps somewhat preposterously, in retrospect – that Erik's death was the start of a new life for Christine, and that she would eventually come to terms with it. He did not know about her haunted dreams, and knew less still about the good times she had shared with her mentor. Christine herself had not dared to mention them, for fear of Raoul thinking her silly or naïve.

There was, within Christine, an urge to flee. She had spent her childhood travelling, and to stay in one place was making her increasingly desperate to move elsewhere. She adored Paris, as much as she had done on first arriving all those years ago, and her dreams had come true at the _Opéra_… but the life of a Vicomtess seemed restrictive and tiresome, and every day the desire to run grew stronger.

Even the _Opéra_ no longer felt a place of safety. Without Erik, she found no purpose to performing. It was impossible to impress an audience who already adored her, and with nothing to work towards, Christine felt her performance begin to lose a little of its sparkle. There was nobody to train her as Erik had, and M. Reyer succeeded only in complaining about her pitch, without offering any advice on how to improve.

And so, to Christine, her decision to call off the wedding had really been rather inevitable.

-w-

Her life continued from then in something of a daze. The flat which Raoul had so kindly procured for her became merely a place to sleep and eat, as she had little to no inclination to decorate or personalise it. The furnishings were comfortable enough, and it provided her some refuge from the world, and for Christine, that was enough.

Raoul had visited a number of times to check on her. He did not outwardly indicate any desire to rekindle their engagement, but Christine knew that was his eventual intention. He seemed to be waiting for her to approach him about it. Eventually, his visits grew more occasional, further apart, until they dried up altogether. Christine had promised herself – and Raoul – that she would write to him, but whenever the opportunity afforded itself, she found herself too exhausted to put pen to paper, or to articulate her thoughts. The same, half-finished letter had been sitting atop her small writing desk for two months; after three, she finally threw it away.

Meg had also visited, for which she was grateful. Meg's chatter about the ballet regime and latest gossip anchored Christine – no matter how inanely – to reality. She would clamour eagerly for stories and rumours which were denied to her as the newest opera star, and Meg would provide them with unfettered glee. It was a meeting of two worlds: Meg, with her blonde curls and girlish laughter, seemed awfully out of place as Christine served tea in her small lounge, feeling older than her years.

Christine was vaguely aware that she had attracted the attention of a few potential suitors, when news of her status began to spread. It seemed the well-to-do bachelors of the capital had no qualms about stepping on each other's toes, let alone those of the Vicomte. Beautiful bouquets of flowers appeared in her dressing room with monotonous regularity after each performance, some anonymous, others not. She was flattered, but unwilling to pursue any of the gentlemen who wanted to get to know her.

"Oh, Christine!" Meg had exclaimed one evening, burying her nose deeply into an exotic-looking flower from the vase on her friend's dresser. "They're simply gorgeous. Who are they from this time?"

Christine picked up the small card which had come with the bouquet; it was simple and white, with no personal details. "It doesn't say," she muttered. "I've seen the handwriting before, though. Whoever it was that sent them, he doesn't want to be identified."

"May I keep this one? I've never seen one like it before."

Christine nodded, and Meg extracted one of the blooms. She toyed with it absently. "May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?"

"You needn't ask permission, Meg." The young dancers often forgot that Christine had been one of their own before, and Meg was no exception.

"It's just… with all of these eligible bachelors interested in you, don't you think it's time you met a few of them? You're no longer engaged to Raoul, after all."

"That's true," she said. "I'm not tied to him any more." Christine sighed, placing the card on her dresser face-down, so as not to look at it. "I still feel bound to him in some ways, despite that."

Meg gave an understanding nod. "Do you think he would disapprove?"

"I imagine he would not be best pleased. It's not that he would interfere; he's too much of a gentleman, and after last time…"

She let the thought trail off, but Meg knew she was referring to the incident in Erik's underground house, after _Don Juan_. A notion occurred to the ballerina then, though she was reticent to speak it aloud. Christine knew her too well for the idea to go unmentioned, however.

"What are you thinking?"

"Oh… it's nothing, really. Just…" She hesitated, then decided against the idea. "No, it's nothing."

"Meg, you don't have to hold your tongue with me."

She withered under Christine's gaze. "I was just wondering… the anonymous sender. You don't think it could be…?"

Christine stared at her for a moment, her mind running through the suggestion at breakneck speed. She had explained to Meg, albeit distractedly, about her time in the house beneath the lake, once the shock of the news which had so shaken her world had ebbed a little. In turn, Meg had felt obliged to mention that Mme. Giry was more than a little suspicious about the circumstances of Erik's demise – or rather, as she surmised, his _disappearance_. Christine had tried not to let the idea become too ingrained into her mind, for fear it would drive her mad; besides, Mme. Giry had no proof upon which to base her assumption, and to imply that the troublesome Opera Ghost might return was a dangerous tactic within the walls of the Palais Garnier.

Simultaneously, however, at Meg's innocent supposition, Christine felt her heart leap with excitement, then sink with realisation of the impossibility of it. She had not answered her friend, and did not have to. Remembering now, Christine knew the anonymous flowers could not have come from him. He would send her a rose – a single, red rose, nothing more – and she would recognise his hand straight away if it had been amongst the many personal messages.

There had been many more bouquets, and many more calling cards, and Christine had felt unable to answer to any of them. From the moment Meg had planted the seed in her brain, she found herself always hoping for that single, red rose, and that familiar spidery handwriting.

The bouquets continued to arrive in their droves; the overpoweringly floral scent of her dressing room eventually started to make her feel nauseous, and she left a message with the doormen not to allow any more to be delivered. This was for the entirely practical reason that she had nowhere to keep them, and was running out of dancers and friends to gift them to. In the back of her mind, however, was a further reason she tried not to acknowledge: that perhaps if others were not so enthusiastic, that elusive rose might miraculously appear…

_**A/N: **__As ever, feedback is appreciated. Things start to get a bit more interesting in the next chapter, hopefully…_


	4. Chapter IV

_**A/N: **__This is one of my favourite chapters of this story, so I hope people enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it._

_PS: Riene – I'm so glad you're still alive and well in the fandom, and thanks so much for the review. I'm happy someone remembers me, at least!_

CHAPTER IV

When Christine saw the carnage left behind by the mob, she knew, as clearly and succinctly in her mind as the most perfect soprano note, that nothing could have survived. Initially, she was taken aback by the sheer level of destruction that greeted her on the threshold to Erik's domain, momentarily stunned into immobility. She recovered quickly when she remembered why she had come; she had to be certain, to see for herself his final resting place, no matter how painful the journey.

She picked her way through the debris in near darkness, her feeble gas-lamp doing little to illuminate a safe path. She felt bitter tears sting her eyes – or was it the remnants of smoke, still? – as she surveyed the damage. All of the beautiful objects and furniture were destroyed; the house was a shell, its wood panelling burnt and blackened and revealing, in places, the cold, stone walls beneath.

She crouched to pick up some sheets of music, buried beneath a pile of dark wood which she presumed had been Erik's piano. The edges were charred, yet she recognised the composition. An early draft of _Don Juan Triumphant_: that fateful scene between Don Juan and Aminta. Christine's tears grew more difficult to blink back; she let the music flutter to the ground, back to its silent grave.

There was yet more to investigate, and Christine pressed onwards, wiping at her eyes. She stumbled over some obstacle on the floor and cried out, the lamp falling from her hand, arms flailing wildly for something to hold onto. She braced herself for hitting the ground, yet no impact came.

Strong arms caught her, supported her… and for the briefest, most wonderful of moments, her heart leapt at the thought that he might have survived. But the hands were warm and dark-skinned; she was pulled to her feet more roughly than she had expected; when her eyes met those of her rescuer, her last, grasping hope shattered. As everything came crashing down around her, Christine found herself weeping uncontrollably in front of a silent stranger, who held her awkwardly at arms' length and carried about him the soft aroma of incense and tea.

The stranger patted her cautiously on the shoulder, as she tried to calm herself down. Eventually, when she had regained some composure and dignity, she pulled away and found the courage to speak. She examined his face in the dim light, and found it wholly unfamiliar.

"Who are you," she asked in a hushed whisper, "and what are you doing in this house?"

The man looked too well off to be foraging for things to steal, and she could tell he was foreign from his general appearance, but nothing about him struck a chord of reminiscence.

He gave a polite bow and spoke in fluent, accented French. "My name is Nadir Khan," he told her. "I am… I was, I should say, a very dear friend of Erik."

Christine could not recall Erik ever mentioning a 'Nadir Khan', nor indeed anyone whom he considered a friend, and she felt a little betrayed. Putting her own memories to one side, however, she chose to focus on the foreign gentleman before her, and why he was prowling around Erik's darkened shell of a house.

Apparently sensing her desire for proof, Nadir reached into a pocket of his long coat, and brought out a black-edged note. Christine smiled grimly; it was proof, solid and undeniable, of Erik's sombre presence.

"Erik sent me this note," he said. "A farewell, of sorts, and a few final requests. It seems he wrote it a long time ago."

Christine could think of nothing to say to that. Erik would clearly have had the foresight, like any man, to write some form of will, and it seemed that Nadir was the executor. Realising her conduct thus far had been rather abrupt, she attempted to make things more amicable.

"I'm sorry; you must think me awfully rude," she said. "I haven't introduced myself, merely begun to interrogate you." She held out a hand. "I am-"

"Christine Daaé," he interrupted. "I know."

Suspicious again, Christine looked at him slightly askance, retracting her outstretched hand. "How…?"

"Erik spoke often of you," he told her. "I fear he has talked of little else since he met you."

There was a slight sparkle to Nadir's eyes, a light humour to his tone. Christine's heart warmed a little to know that Erik had clearly spoken so highly of her to his friend, even though the sentiment was apparently not reversed.

She eyed the letter in his hand, the desire to examine its mysterious contents near burning her with curiosity. Eventually, she could no longer quell the urge to see Erik's final message.

"May I… read the note?"

Nadir hesitated at first, drawing it slightly closer to himself, but then conceded: "I suppose there's no harm. Here."

Christine took the proffered letter, unfolding it carefully and reading the words with a degree of reverence. Erik's handwriting was scrawling and untidy in places, as though it had been written with a shaking hand, but the language was as typical of him as she could have anticipated.

If Erik had known what was to come, it was not obvious; the words were those of a man merely planning for his inevitable future demise, whether by natural causes or otherwise. There was no indication that he had anticipated the mob, nor was there any suggestion of suicidal intent. After all, that would have been a coward's way out, and Erik was no coward. Besides which, he had always been fond of a stirring finale.

Most of his requests were practical: what to do with his body, his funeral arrangements (or lack thereof, it seemed), and where to send his possessions. He had left Mme. Giry a small amount "for her friendship" and the rest was unspecific. He wanted his music and instruments salvaged by Nadir, the furniture given to appreciative others, the possessions sold or pawned and the subsequent money given to who- or whatsoever Nadir felt it fit for… indeed, he appeared to have left all the important decision-making to his old friend. Perhaps he had not been willing to admit that the world which had so scorned him was not such a bad place after all; or perhaps, equally, he could not bring himself to personally give anything back to a world which had been so cruel.

Christine was surprised to read the requests he had made of her, also. He quite specifically desired that she did not see his corpse, which she was glad about. He had requested one final visit from her, if the situation accommodated it, but he had been very stern to point out that if he were contagious or otherwise dangerous to health, she should not come, but communicate through Nadir anything she wished to say.

The letter was undated, offering no indication of when it might have been written. The only defining characteristic was Christine's own presence therein, which at least placed it within the last eighteen months.

She turned it over in her hands several times, looking, perhaps, for some kind of clue or indication that the note was merely hypothetical: a 'worst case scenario'. The back of the letter bore nothing more than occasional blotches of ink left over from heavy-handed pressure of the pen. Christine felt strangely disappointed.

Handing it back to Nadir, she thanked him politely.

"Were you expecting something more?" he asked.

She frowned a little. He was very intuitive, and it made her feel uncomfortable.

"No," she said, though in truth, she had been expecting more from the letter. "I was merely curious."

As Nadir re-folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his pocket, he said, "At least it explains my presence here, yes?" Christine gave a nod. "Though it certainly does not explain yours."

"I read the news," she explained, "in _L'Epoque_. I thought it might be safe to come here now. I… I don't know what I was hoping for." Except she knew full well what she had been hoping for, deep within herself; she had been yearning for some sign that the story in the newspaper was false, or mistaken. Nadir's letter had dispelled that hope in one fell swoop, and now she was at a loss.

Nadir placed a kind hand to her shoulder. "Take whatever you like," he said. "I'm sure Erik would prefer it that way, than for me to commandeer his possessions."

She gave a grateful nod. Yes, there was plenty she could salvage. But casting her gaze around the darkened room, she barely knew where to begin.

-w-

Christine's travel case contained those few objects she had managed to retrieve from the shell of Erik's home. There were only a few sheets of music left intact – a disembodied aria entitled _Les Fleurs_, and some pages from _Don Juan Triumphant _which appeared to be an early draft; his violin had escaped the carnage, through some miracle; and there were several trinkets redeemable from her bedroom, which the mob had seemingly ignored or overlooked.

Beneath her thick scarf, Erik's ring nestled protected against her heart, threaded onto a simple chain. She had discovered it safely ensconced inside a velvet box, hidden away behind one of the wooden panels on the wall. Uncovering it had been entirely accidental: casting her lamp around the room one final time before leaving, the light had revealed what looked to be a hinged compartment near the floor, slightly ajar from an attack to the wall.

She suppressed a shudder at the memory of that place: the empty tomb which had once been Erik's opulent residence. Above the compartment in the wall there was a vicious-looking dent at the height of his head; and for the first time, it had occurred to her the horrible circumstances of his death.

So many people had referred to him as a monster, something less than human. Christine knew all too well that Erik's murderers would feel no remorse for their actions. They considered they were doing the world a great justice by ridding it of such a creature. She had learnt little of his past, but knew that it had been tainted with violence and rejection. Nobody had stopped to look beyond the horror of his face.

_Would I have stopped,_ she asked herself, _if I had not already heard that voice? _Even she had recoiled at first from the distorted visage, unable to quantify in her mind how something so hideous could create such a beautiful sound.

If only others had tried to understand; if only she herself could have made them listen. The only time she had spoken of Erik to Raoul was up on the rooftop of the Opera, before she had known any better. Christine was just as responsible for the misconception as those who had persecuted him, and – if she was honest – Erik himself had never sought to dispel the idea that he was a soulless monster; in fact, she pondered grimly, he had quite done the opposite. She considered him an avenging angel of the night, returning the favour to a world which had despised him from birth.

Christine thought – perhaps misguidedly – that she might have been able to tame him, given time. He was as wild as an unplucked rose, protected by the thorns of his self-loathing and yet just as impossible to resist. Christine had always suffered a weakness for roses, with their soft downy petals and beautiful colours; Erik had procured only the finest blooms for her, always blood crimson and perfect. It was only now, in retrospect, that she realised the bitter irony in such a gesture.

There had been no roses since that fateful rainy morning. Raoul had bought her flowers, of course; they adorned her bedroom and the drawing room and were always fresh. He had procured roses for her on one occasion alone: a beautiful arrangement of many different colours, with a single red rose at the centre. The sight of it had brought unprecedented tears to Christine's eyes and she had refused to have them in the house. After that, he dared not risk buying them again.

With a sigh, Christine shook herself both physically and mentally from the memory of Erik's house, shivering as a cold breeze blew in and chilled her. It would not do to dwell so much on things she could not change. _Don't think about the things which might have been…_ The lyrics of the aria came back to her unbidden and she found herself humming the melody, etched for eternity in her memory.

The wind grew stronger, catching her hood and drawing it away from her head in a sudden gust. As she reached to readjust the garment, she froze, spinning to look behind her. The deck was still deserted, and yet… _No,_ she told herself. _You're being silly. It's just the wind._

She turned back again, pulling the hood up to cover her head once more, yet she could not shake the eerie feeling which swept over her. She knew it was impossible, but was convinced nonetheless of what she had heard. The wind had spoken; and its voice was so painfully familiar that she found herself struck dumb with shock, tears prickling her eyes, and a whispered name hanging in the air like her breath before her.

"Chrissssstiiiiine…"


	5. Chapter V

_**A/N: **__I quite like this chapter, too. =)_

_There are only two chapters to go after this one. I'm not sure if I'll get the whole story up before Christmas like I wanted, due to real life commitments and the Day in question approaching like an unrelenting train, but I will endeavour to get it up before New Year, at least._

_That being said, here's the next chapter for anyone reading._

CHAPTER V

Of course, they never did understand. Even Mme. Giry, whom Christine had thought would need no explanation, did not fully comprehend her grief.

A month had passed since calling off her engagement to Raoul, and life seemed to be passing in a haze of nothingness. She awoke, dressed, stared at her breakfast, and made the short journey to the _Opéra_, every morning the same as the last. She rehearsed in a distracted daze, to the chagrin of M. Reyer, and would eat whatever Meg procured for lunch out of courtesy, despite not being hungry. The evening would pass in a similar manner; she would stare at a blank piece of writing paper, attempt to read a book, and eventually concede to gaze out of the window at passers-by.

After a week or so, Mme. Giry became concerned for her health and insisted that Meg move in for a few weeks, hoping that company might bring Christine back to her senses. Christine admittedly found it more difficult to avoid eating whilst Meg was around, but she did not speak much. Meg would read to her, but suspected it was futile. Mme. Giry had also written to Raoul to explain the situation, and he, too, visited often to take Christine out for lunch, or walks along the river. She was becoming increasingly pale and thin, the haunted, empty sadness never leaving her eyes.

Although she was vaguely aware that they were worried, Christine could not explain her lethargy, for fear that they would think her mad – assuming they did not already. Raoul presumed she was haunted by her experience below the _Opéra_, the news of Erik's demise having brought those memories to the fore once again, and Meg perhaps thought similarly, though she was endlessly patient and did not push Christine to talk. Mme. Giry understood better than most, having known Erik herself, but even she was unaware of the time Christine had spent in his underground home.

Thinking about it now, as she travelled further away from the memories, Christine realised that even she herself had not fully understood her own reactions. In retrospect, it was all too obvious.

Erik was undoubtedly a strange and mysterious being. She knew very little about him except that his upbringing and early life had been brutal and unforgiving, embittering him against the world. She did not even know how old he was, and it was impossible to tell. He was thin, yet stronger even than Raoul; of course, there was no way to ascertain it from his face, as even the unblemished side was pale and angular. She had subsequently begun to imagine him as immortal, something not quite of this world. She had always anticipated he would be there, even after he had let her go.

The news in _L'Epoque_ had shattered that misconception like fragile glass. Christine found herself plunged into a world without Erik, a world which was suddenly terrifying, vast and boundless. Where the underground house had scared her before, she now remembered it as a haven from all that lay above, where all that existed was music. With Erik gone, she found the silence deafening.

It had been years since her father's death, but she recognised that feeling of desolation and fear, as though her very grounding in reality had been taken away. No longer tethered to land, she felt as though she would drift away helplessly into the void. At least then she'd had something to focus on with the _corps du ballet_, and in time she felt her sanity return. With Erik's death, she found nothing to focus on, nothing to cling to. The _Opéra_ merely reminded her daily of what she had lost. And in time, it seemed that Erik was forgotten. Despite Mme. Giry's best efforts, the Managers threatened unemployment if she did not hand over the key to Box Five, and she had to concede. The box was sold along with the others. The Phantom's reign of terror had finally ceased, and soon enough the dancers' rumours turned to more mundane gossip.

In truth, Christine felt cheated. Perhaps Erik himself had never clamoured actively for fame, but he seemed to enjoy the reputation he had made for himself. As she had grown to know him during their brief time together, Christine began to wonder if perhaps, under any other circumstances, he might have become a well-known composer. _Don Juan_ had been an outpouring of his anger and raw emotion, and should never have seen the light of day; but there were other, smaller pieces that he had played for her, and she had never heard anything so beautiful before. They had dealt with deeper, more painful emotions, however, and he refused to let them be performed in any greater context than his own home. Even Christine's stumbling sight-reading of the pieces had made him uncomfortable.

In another ten years, Erik's memory would die completely; she was sure of it. His opera would never be heard again. If he was remembered at all, it would only be for all the wrong reasons: the murders, the tricks, his 'kidnapping' of a promising young singer. Perhaps Christine herself would have been remembered, had she stayed in Paris. There was much talk of her success as the new 'first lady' at the _Opéra_; already she was recognised by strangers in the street. The thought of becoming any more well-known was stifling. She could barely cope with the attention of her friends, let alone that of people she had never met.

She resigned to disappear after only a few months, after mulling over the idea for some time and repeatedly dismissing it as ridiculous. Eventually, she convinced herself it was the best course of action. If Erik were to be forgotten, Christine thought, then she herself should follow that path. Without Erik she would have been nothing more than another faceless, nameless ballet girl – perhaps part of the chorus when she became too old for that. It seemed only fitting that she should be forgotten now as well. Nobody would know who they were, in years to come; nobody would know about their mysterious meeting or the events of that fateful night beneath the _Opéra_.

Nobody would remember that she had loved him. And she did love him, although she had realised it far too late.

Christine felt her heart constrict at the thought. She fought down the lump in her throat for a second time, brushing away fresh tears. On re-thinking, she preferred to imagine that their story might become legend: the tale of the Opera Ghost and the young chorus girl. Perhaps the mysterious ending might pique some curiosity.

_I shall write it down myself,_ she thought. A first hand account would certainly be better than whatever might be conjured up from the various rumours. Yes, when she was settled, Christine would commit pen to paper and ensure the story was told correctly. After that, she might even endeavour to get it published, or send it to a newspaper.

The world would not forget. Of that, she would make quite sure.

-w-

Even during her darkest moments of melancholic apathy, Christine had somehow found it within herself to become utterly furious with Raoul.

It happened during one of their many shared lunches. It was a beautiful day, the sun beating down over the city, and after eating, Raoul had persuaded her to join him for a stroll. He was obviously worried about her wan appearance and hoped that the sunlight might bring some colour back to her face. Christine had to concede that the sun-dappled surroundings made her feel somewhat less futile, and she knew that the exercise would do her some good.

It had been two months since she had called off the engagement, and Raoul was being particularly careful not to bring it up. There was an unspoken agreement that they would simply not discuss it until Christine was ready. As such, their conversations revolved around such mundane topics as the weather, the quality of whichever restaurant or café they had patronised, or the general health of their acquaintances.

If Raoul had been hoping for some kind of breakthrough, he did not indicate it or attempt to steer their conversations. He knew full well that no matter how disinterested or merely tolerant Christine appeared, she would flee at the first sign of danger.

They had paused a moment to sit on a bench in the shade, to cool off and enjoy the view. There were several citizens out that afternoon, walking their dogs or pushing babies in perambulators; a group of gentlemen ambled casually past, discussing finances, followed by a small huddle of ladies carrying parasols, presumably their wives. Christine watched the women for a moment, reminded of her own brief experience and awfully grateful that she had escaped such a life of forced sociability. She snapped her attention back when she realised Raoul was speaking to her, and answered in a monosyllabic yet appropriate manner. She had kept up this façade of interest for a while, but it was becoming more and more difficult to stay focussed. Her mind would wander often, making it impossible to concentrate.

Once more, she found her attention drifting. She watched a young couple walking slowly some distance away, deep in conversation. When they were out of sight, she found herself hypnotised by the play of light and shadow at her feet, the sun breaking through leaves that fluttered in the breeze. Raoul was talking about something, yet her ears were drawn to birdsong above their heads.

She had lolled her head to the side without realising it, closing her eyes and straining to hear the melody in the trees, and it was at this moment that Raoul stopped describing his latest visit to his cousin in the south and noticed that her mind was clearly elsewhere. Considering that even Raoul very rarely enjoyed such visits, he understood why Christine was fed up of the tale.

"Christine," he said, "if you're bored, you only have to interrupt me."

She opened her eyes and dropped her head apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, Raoul. You must think me so ignorant."

"Of course not," he reassured her.

"I was listening to the birds," she explained. "They always sound so happy, don't they?" Raoul gave a cautious nod, unsure what to say in response. "Of course, I don't suppose they have much to worry about…"

"No, I suppose they don't."

"That must be wonderful. And think, Raoul! – to be able to fly away whenever one felt the need."

"Yes, I-"

Struck with an idea, Christine became more animated than she had been in weeks. "I'm sure I saw a man earlier, selling little song-thrushes. He had them in such tiny cages that I thought him cruel, but… oh, I should love one. I've seen some beautiful birdcages, too, large ones."

She rose to her feet excitedly, heading back down the path, but found her progress halted by Raoul gently grasping her arm, smiling in amusement.

"Now, wait a moment," he said. She sighed impatiently, her brain set on a course of action which he was now thwarting. "Let's not rush in head-first. Keeping a bird… it's quite a responsibility."

"I _know_ that."

Raoul flinched, realising he had been a little too patronising. "And you mustn't forget that birds are wild animals, Christine. At the first chance of escape, you may never see it again."

This time she did not even justify him with a reply.

"I suppose I can't dissuade you," he said. "If a bird is what you want, a bird is what you shall have."

Christine raised up a little on her toes, her eyes lighting up. Raoul could not help but smile at the change in her. He was hopeful she was recovering, slowly but surely, and maybe a pet bird would motivate her again. If there was another mouth to feed, perhaps she might be inclined once more to feed herself.

He began to lead her off, his hand resting in the crook of her elbow, in a direction away from the peddler with the cages, but she resisted. "He was _this_ way, Raoul," she explained. "I saw him earlier."

"No, I know somewhere much better. You can pick any bird you like. They have canaries of the brightest yellow…"

She stopped still, and blinked at him in confusion. "But I don't want a canary."

Raoul hesitated. "But I thought…" he trailed off, thoughtfully. He had realised that perhaps Christine wanted to pay for the bird herself, and knew that the peddler was inexpensive; besides that, she had always been kind-hearted when it came to the unfortunate. He would have bought her some exotic creature from a shop without question or thought, but she was naturally clamouring for independence.

A small, brown bird flew down to the ground, picking at some manner of debris in the grass. Christine watched its progress as it found something to eat and flew straight back to the tree, where its song began anew above their heads. She let out a soft sigh of appreciation, hoping that Raoul would understand that all the pretty canaries in the world would not satisfy her craving for nature's own music. Still, though, he was certain there must be a better option than the shabby things she had spotted earlier.

Smiling wistfully, he ventured once more to offer her something more befitting her character. "Are you quite sure, Christine? The songbirds are quite drab, after all…"

Her expression changed dramatically then, a darkness overtaking her features and a frown gracing her brow. "I don't _care_ how it looks, Raoul. Even the ugliest creatures on earth can produce beautiful music."

It took him a few seconds to understand the deeper meaning to her words, and then he realised what she was really referring to. Chastised, he began to offer an apology, but she was already walking away from him.

"Christine, wait!" He sprinted the few short steps after her, drawing to her side and matching her pace. "I'm sorry for saying that. I wasn't thinking. Please forgive me."

Christine slowed her pace a little, but continued walking. When she spoke again, it was with a forced civility and an outwardly aloof expression, attempting to remain polite despite her anger. "Thank you for lunch," she said, "and for the walk. It was quite pleasant. But I must go now."

He resisted the urge to grab for her arm, and instead placed himself in front of her, effectively blocking her path. She came to a halt, almost tripping over him, but made no attempt to manoeuvre around him for the moment.

"Please let me pass," she requested coolly.

Raoul gazed at her imploringly. "I will," he said, "once I am reassured. I didn't mean to upset you, Christine."

She let out a sigh. "I know."

For a moment, the two merely stared at each other. Their declarations of love on the rooftop of the _Opéra_ seemed a lifetime ago. Christine remembered that night as though it had occurred in a different place, a different time; as she had dragged Raoul away from the backstage chaos, extricating herself from Carlotta's accusatory glare (obvious even through her abject terror), the world had taken on an eerie, surreal tinge, blurred around the edges, delirious and hallucinatory with its bright colours and garish sounds. On the roof, however, it was as if time had stopped. The sky had been cloudless and full of stars, as quiet as a tomb. Her thoughts were far from _Il Muto _and its Countess, her only desire being to escape the nightmarish events that Erik was slowly weaving in the House. He was an underground, reclusive being; so she travelled upwards, as far removed as possible from his subterranean world.

At the time, she had not fully understood that he was present. His voice had echoed Raoul's and she had thought herself insane, her brain addled from their earlier experience and the panicked journey upwards. She realised now how the silence had been almost too silent, too _forced_, as though the world had hushed in reverence – or in fear.

Distantly, a clock could be heard chiming the hour; Christine was drawn out of her nostalgic remembrance as though waking from a dream. She studied Raoul's patient features and was overcome with the need to explain herself, to make him understand her confused emotions over the past few months.

"Raoul, I…" No words would form. She could not explain; he would not understand. With a defeated sigh, she changed the subject back to the mundane details they were both so used to. "It's quite late," she said. "I have things to attend to."

"I understand."

"It's been a lovely afternoon."

"Indeed." There was an awkward pause. "Would you like me to walk you home?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I'd like to… I'll be fine, on my own." She proffered a weak smile.

"Yes." Raoul lifted her hand to his lips. "Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye."

-w-

The songbird was safely ensconced within its gilt cage, beside her on the deck. It had become a little distressed at the outset, but the gentle movement of the ship seemed to have lulled it back to calmness. It chirruped occasionally, reminding Christine of that sunny day in the park with Raoul.

Christine's original intention had been to bring the bird with her and accommodate it wherever she might end up, but the journey thus far had given her time to think. What right did she have to imprison the poor creature when she herself was fleeing, experiencing the freedom she had longed for? Had she not been a caged bird herself, once upon a time? The wretched thing had been captured and incarcerated unthinkingly; Christine had not really considered the implications before now, interested only in the creature's song and the idea of listening to it on a whim. It would only be right to release it.

Of course, she could not do so immediately, as the bird would undoubtedly not survive before reaching land – it was only tiny, after all. She vowed to wait until they had reached dry land once more and she had found a place to stay, whereupon she could seek out an appropriate home for her pet. It had been excellent company during her darker moments of melancholy, and she felt it was only right to reward it with a tree of its own to dwell in. Besides, she had been toying with the idea of getting a cat, and to have two sworn enemies under the same roof was clearly a recipe for disaster.

She knew that much all too well.

_**A/N: **__The park I imagined them walking through in the latter half of the chapter is based on the Tuilleries gardens in Paris (between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde)._

_I must also apologise for the excessive use of Raoul in this chapter, but you can understand why it was an unfortunate necessity. The next chapter will be E/C friendly, I promise. :P_


	6. Chapter VI

_**A/N: **__This is the penultimate chapter. I didn't intend to write the end of the story in this manner – not entirely, anyway – but after seeing the 25__th__ anniversary gala at the Albert Hall and its particular staging of certain key scenes, I decided to change things a little. The ending is still how I envisaged it at the outset, but I included some additional story before it._

_For what it's worth, these final two chapters were written in a crazy flurry of productivity after seeing the aforesaid gala performance, so I apologise if any of it seems rushed. This chapter is a rehash of a familiar – but hopefully favourite – sequence in the musical and is my interpretation / memory of how it was played in the gala by Ramin and Sierra. Obviously, you can picture whoever you prefer. ;)_

_Clearly, I did not manage to get the finished story up before Christmas as I had hoped, thanks to real life commitments getting in the way. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this instalment, and I'll get the final chapter up before the end of the month._

CHAPTER VI

For too many months, Christine had tried valiantly to forget her last few moments in that dark and foreboding house, and the events of that fateful night, and for just as long, she had failed. As she had anticipated, the slightest reminder – in this instance, a melody which returned unbidden to her mind – was enough to hypnotise her into painful nostalgia.

She did not like to dwell on her actions in _Don Juan_; even now the memory of the performance was somewhat amorphous in her brain, and she could no longer recall the words she had spent so many weeks rehearsing. She had been aware of his presence almost immediately – no other voice in the world had such power over her.

Perhaps she should have stopped, raised the alarm as soon as the realisation had hit. They had not discovered Piangi yet, whatever had happened to him, but equally nobody seemed to have noticed the switch. Christine found herself entranced, unable to focus on anything but the duet and her own part in the drama that was unfolding. Before she knew what was happening the song was over; the cowl had been pushed away, the intruder revealed.

A deathly silence descended in the auditorium; in her periphery vision she saw the pistol glinting from the orchestra pit, the hand that clenched it trembling nervously; the assembled guards were readying to swarm. Erik began to flee the scene, but something made him stop. As the words she had spoken to Raoul on the rooftop came tumbling from the Phantom's lips, she was struck by a moment of blinding clarity; he _had _been there that night, echoing her name in the darkness... and the chandelier had been no accident.

Struck dumb with shock, she barely noticed the ring he was proffering until it was already on her finger, and only then did the enormity and danger of the situation dawn upon her. She was aware of a hubbub in the wings and murmuring in the audience. Her hand moved of its own volition to tear the mask from his face…

What had provoked her to do such a thing? Her thoughts had been so tumultuous that they were impossible to identify. _Shoot to kill._ Raoul's instructions to the firemen echoed through her brain; she had been too weary to protest as he formed his plan, hoping beyond hope that Erik would foil it by remaining invisible for the duration, as he was so adept at doing. Instead, he had made himself too easy a target. She acted without thinking, revealing that distorted visage to the world in the vague hope that it might cause a distraction – or at the very least, that Erik's self-protective instincts would cause him to disappear.

The thought had never crossed her mind that he might take her with him.

He dragged her once more to the depths of the building, through unrecognisable passageways; she knew they'd taken this journey once before, but had been too enthralled to take notice of her surroundings. In any event, she could not have remembered the way – the stone walls yielded no landmarks or discernible features, the light was too dim, the corridors too labyrinthine. His iron grip around her wrist did not falter, even when she stumbled: he merely pulled her roughly to her feet and continued blindly ahead. She stopped resisting when she realised the futility of trying; even if she managed to break free from his grasp, the possibility of becoming irrevocably lost seemed all too plausible, and there would be no-one to retrieve her but Erik.

Distantly, she could hear the hubbub of a gathering mob above their heads, but it was soon drowned out by Erik's furious raving. Anger poured out with every syllable, and when it was spent he could do nothing but utter a desperate plea: "Christine… _why?_"

Before then, she had never questioned his early life. He had fallen into hers as an Angel – a gift from her dearly departed father – and even when she had realised he was merely a mortal being like any other, somehow it had never occurred to her that he must have had a life, too: a mother, a childhood. He had not simply emerged into existence at her will, just as much as he would not disappear.

She had condemned him to death. The realisation came with a stab of ugly guilt in her heart. By revealing his secret to the world, she had done nothing more than bring havoc upon them both. The sins he had committed were too great, and the pleadings of an ignorant girl – whom only days ago they had already suspected to be entirely mad – would not be enough to redeem him in the eyes of an angry crowd.

They reached the house, and the world began to slow down a little. Fearful and breathless, Christine wore the wedding dress only to appease him, in a vain hope that it might quell his rage to see her in it. Of course, it fit her perfectly – how did he _know_ such things? – and was truly exquisite. The expense he must have gone to… she did not like to think about it., feeling wholly unworthy of such lavish gifts.

When she emerged from her bedroom, he seemed calmer. There was, of course, one important item missing from her outfit: the flowing veil which he now held in his hands. As it came to rest upon her head, Erik seemed to taunt her, gesturing towards his face in an attempt to gauge her reaction. Her first sight of it had remained so burned into her memory that the reality was almost a relief; her mind had constructed a nightmare far beyond what was actually before her. Yes, she could look upon that face now without fear… but Erik was not the man she had thought, in all her innocent wonderings. He was certainly no Angel, no messenger from her father. He had brought her under his spell and she had been powerless to resist. The pure soul she had hoped for did not exist; at least, not in any place she could reach now that she had betrayed him so horribly.

Raoul's arrival caused both relief and alarm. Erik had become suddenly volatile and unpredictable. His sworn enemy had entered uninvited and Christine saw the flash of jealousy and rage as she made to run to her rescuer. Erik's arm shot outwards, barring her path, and his hand seized the area between her shoulder and neck in a vice-like grip, the long fingers almost strangling her. He released her only when Raoul had been granted entrance to his domain. She flinched in pain and Erik seemed surprised, unaware of what he'd been doing. All too soon, however, the brief remorse in his eyes was replaced by a menacing calm. Christine realised too late that _she_ was to be Raoul's distraction, and the noose of the Punjab lasso was around his throat before she could blink.

At that moment, all thought abandoned her. There was a cacophony of voices as Raoul begged forgiveness for his rash bravado and Christine berated Erik for tricking her for so long, trying to make him see sense. It was useless; his own voice had risen above theirs and he had her by the wrist, making quite sure that she could not look away.

"You try my patience," he snarled. "Make your choice."

He pushed her away from him roughly; she lost her balance, falling to the floor. Raoul had stopped struggling against the rope, and was watching the proceedings with awed dread. Erik turned away from them both, and she could tell from the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders that he was breathing deeply, attempting to bring calm once more to his demeanour.

She had precious few seconds left. Erik's earlier words during their descent were making more sense to her now; all his life he had experienced nothing but rejection, pain and torment, from the moment of his birth. She had travelled with her father as a child, and knew well enough how cruel people could be to outsiders. If all he wanted was acceptance – if it meant saving Raoul's life, and perhaps more besides… then the choice was obvious even to Christine's addled brain.

She uttered some meaningless words of pity, but did not know if Erik had heard her. As she rose slowly to her feet and prayed for strength and bravery, it took every shred of her will-power not to turn around and look at Raoul. She had to focus only on Erik, or all was lost. He had become still, and did not react to her approaching footsteps. She placed a tentative hand to his shoulder and he stiffened in surprise at the contact, turning to face her.

Anything he might have been about to say was silenced by her kiss. She felt him hesitate, almost moving away from her, but her hand was resting on his arm and she found herself coaxing him gently back. His lips were warm, she realised with some surprise: his touch had always been so cold against her skin. After only a moment she pulled away, but she was not brave enough to meet his gaze, instead resting her head against his chest in a meek imitation of an embrace.

Beneath her ear, Erik's heart was beating so rapidly that she was suddenly afraid for his health. Lifting her head again, she found him staring at her in a state of confused, uncomprehending despair. As his ruined features searched her own for some kind of understanding, an unfamiliar jolt struck her heart. Her hands seemed to reach up of their own volition, gently caressing his face and bringing it once more towards her own. This time he did not try to pull away; Christine felt herself falling into an endless chasm. He was trembling, and as he began to raise his shaking hands she felt certain he would envelop her in those deceptively strong arms… but, soon enough, he covered her hands with his, lingering only long enough to ease them from his face and gently push her away.

For what seemed an eternity, they could do nothing but stare at each other. Erik's eyes searched hers for some kind of explanation, but she was utterly lost. His thumb caressed the back of her hand, but she barely noticed it as her heart hammered a merciless percussion. Then, some distant sound she herself had not identified seemed to break through his haze, and within half a second he was on the other side of the room, the lasso in his hand – and Raoul was free, very much alive and desperately confused by what he had just witnessed.

As Erik ordered them both to leave, Christine became aware of a distant, persistent murmur – the mob were closing in. Her emotions were so thoroughly wrung that she did not protest, nor question his demand, merely allowed Raoul to lead her away even as Erik's desperate roar rang in her ears. They were halfway to the lake when she remembered the ring. Raoul continued on as she turned back, her footsteps so light that he did not even realise she was gone.

She returned to find Erik sprawled on the floor, staring at the curious music box as it played. The miniature, curiously-attired monkey continued to play until its action had wound down, and as she took a step forward, every tiny sound, from her gentle footfall to the rustle of her dress, seemed to echo in the new-found silence. Erik was visibly shocked, but he regained some semblance of dignity to stand before her.

As she slid the ring from her finger and held it out to him, she knew that anguished, haunted, infinitely understanding expression would stay with her forever. She placed the ring in his palm and he wrapped her smaller hand in both of his, holding on for a few more precious seconds. He whispered her name; the truth she had long suspected was finally admitted, hanging in the air between them. She wanted to say something, but no words would form.

She heard footsteps approaching and felt herself panic; Raoul had realised she was no longer following and had returned in pursuit. Her heart was shattering into glassy shards, her emotions in shreds, knowing she could not reciprocate. It was too late; there was no time; she had ruined everything. All she could do was kneel at Erik's feet and beg forgiveness, kissing his hand in reverent adoration as if he were a saint. She turned away from him as bitter tears stung her eyes, pulling from his grasp, and made to leave once more.

Halfway to the door, she stopped, mindlessly repeating the entreaty she had made of Raoul – and Erik of her – though she knew not to whom it was addressed. Indeed, Raoul believed it was to him, as he coaxed her gently away from the house and towards the waiting boat. Erik called out a final desperate command, but she could not distinguish the words.

When she last heard mention of his name, it was in sombre newsprint. When she last saw his house, it was unrecognisably destroyed. When she last saw his face, it appeared before her in the waves like a ghost, and she felt her heart snap in two.

_**A/N: **__The next and final chapter will hopefully fill in any remaining blanks. For now, please leave a review if you enjoyed._


	7. Chapter VII

_**A/N:**__ The final chapter. As Christine reaches the end of her journey, what will she find?_

CHAPTER VII

The ultimate, fully-formed decision to flee came midway through the rehearsal period for the _Opéra_'s next gala night. The preparations for her departure took an inordinate amount of time, but even if they had been straightforward, Christine would not have abandoned her friends and colleagues before the performance. M. Reyer had been quite unhappy enough after her one-week absence, and André and Firmin were counting on the gala: despite the Phantom's absence, his reputation had nonetheless resulted in reduced ticket sales. The gala would showcase audience favourites, hopefully bringing back the patrons they had lost after the premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Aside from that, Christine was their star – the famous survivor of the Phantom's final reign of terror – and now their greatest selling point. No, she would not desert them.

Rehearsals flew past in a blur as she made the final preparations. She had decided to keep her plans a secret, for fear of being dissuaded. Raoul would be horrified at the prospect, and Meg distraught. She could not afford even the slightest moment of weakness, and knew that she must be completely selfish. Once the complicated arrangements were made – the boarding passes secured, the temporary lodgings acquired, the carriage booked to transport both herself and her luggage to the station – she set about the task of writing her goodbyes.

She had barely committed pen to paper since learning of Erik's demise; even her diary had remained untouched, for her thoughts were simultaneously tumultuous and apathetic, impossible to articulate. Several drafts were destroyed and re-written before she finally held the finished letters in her hand, each one sealed neatly into its own envelope and addressed to its recipient by name alone. Addresses were not required, as she would hand-deliver them herself.

The first was to Raoul. She arranged to have it left in the anteroom of his private box at the _Opéra_, for him to find on his departure from the gala. She had struggled immensely with what to say. In the end, she merely thanked him for his kindness and devotion, apologised profusely for their short-lived romance and all it could have promised, and instructed him firmly to forget about her. He was, after all, perhaps the most eligible bachelor in Paris, and it would not be long before some other young thing took his fancy. Despite her best intentions, however, she still could not bring herself to explain why she had broken off their engagement, and could only hope that some day, he might understand.

To Meg, Christine wrote in somewhat similar terms. She would miss her friend dearly and knew that her sudden disappearance would be a shock. She promised to write to her again once she was settled, and hoped that perhaps one day they might see each other again. Christine was absolutely certain she herself would never return to France, but Meg could always visit. Enclosed with the letter were the carefully pressed and preserved petals of some exotic flowers, saved from the bouquets Christine had received over the months. Meg had always been so fascinated by them. The note was left in the dressing room for Meg to find after the performance.

Mme. Giry's letter – left in the same place as her daughter's – was more difficult to compose. She was a formidable woman, but Christine felt an affinity towards her nonetheless. She had treated her kindly, and had kept Erik's dark secrets for longer than Christine could begin to imagine. Even now, she was unsure of how much Mme. Giry really knew, or what her connection had been to him. She was the only surviving link to Erik; Christine hoped that she would understand the decision to run. The memories were too painful, the grief too raw. She tried not to dwell on that too much in the note, and ended the correspondence with cordial thanks for all Mme. Giry had taught her over the years.

Of course, she could not leave without thanking her former employers, and a polite, rather detached letter had been left for the attention of André and Firmin in their office. In this, she thanked them for their part in her career, short-lived though it was, and offered an apology for all the mess that had ensued. She felt responsible even now for the 'accidents' that had befallen the _Opéra_, and could only hope that things would be quieter in her absence.

Although she had only met him briefly, Christine also felt compelled to write to Nadir, Erik's mysterious Persian friend. (She had no idea where he lived, but enquiries at the box office revealed he was attending the gala and would be picking up his ticket that evening, so she left his note with the clerk.) He had been kind to her during their short encounter at the underground house, and – although he did not know it – the note he had shown her cemented more fully in her mind the decision to leave. Her visit that day had been made in blind hope, and that hope had been shattered. As she had gathered what trinkets she could from Erik's home, the knowledge that she could never return formed fully and completely in her mind. Aside from that, Nadir had obviously been a dear and close friend to Erik, and the thought that he had not been completely alone was comforting.

The final letter was the most difficult. She had hesitated over it for longer than she cared to remember, and even when it was sealed into its envelope, she debated with herself whether or not to deliver it. Of all the things she was escaping from, perhaps the greatest was Erik: the memory of him, of their time together. She had still not allowed herself to grieve, and part of her knew that was because there were too many reminders in Paris; she would never be free to live her life whilst the remembrance of Erik remained. Even so, to leave without properly saying goodbye felt like the worst betrayal she could commit. The letter had flowed almost unconsciously from her pen, all of her thoughts spilling onto the page. She bade him farewell in superfluous terms and explained that she was going away, never to return. He would never read it, she knew; but she left it on the doorstep of his underground house with a sense of finality, and her decision felt markedly less bleak.

The gala arrived. The House was full, almost completely sold out. Despite Madame Giry's ardent protests, the Managers had insisted on selling Box Five along with all the others. Christine could not deny feeling a little uncomfortable at seeing unfamiliar patrons within its velvet confines, where before there would only have been a mysterious yet overbearing darkness.

She sang her part with detached ease, reciting the words without any thought, as her brain ran through the preparations one more time. She would have very little time after the performance to escape. She planned to change quickly, and leave by the Rue Scribe door, where she would board her carriage and depart. There was no time for any delay.

The first Act flew past, then the interval. Christine was to perform the final number of the evening, the show's grand finale. As the moment approached she became entirely aware of her surroundings, taking in all the details she had become so accustomed to: the opulent interior of the auditorium, the backstage passages, the comforting hubbub and familiar smells. To think, she had spent so many of her formative years within these walls, and would never set foot here again…

She began the aria and felt herself fall back in time, to her first performance as a young ingénue. It seemed a lifetime ago, not the mere months it was in reality. As the lyrics spoke of love and hope, she felt an unrelenting, crushing pressure around her heart. Raoul had attended the performance and was watching her with unconcealed admiration and affection, but the empty space in her chest yearned only for Erik. She missed him so dreadfully that her mind could focus on nothing else. As the aria reached its crescendo, she reached her arms towards the heavens and sent the words upwards, praying that he would hear this last, ultimate culmination of his tutoring. The final note burst effortlessly from her throat with perfect soprano tone; in her mind it was nothing more than the anguished scream of a soul in torment.

Afterwards, spent of any useful emotion, Christine accepted her audience's ovation with reasonable grace, and proceeded to her dressing room in a daze. They had moved her, since the "incident", yet even so she stole a nostalgic glance to the full-length mirror. Its glass was silent and cold, mockingly ordinary. She changed quickly and packed the final few items from her dressing table into a valise. Casting one final gaze around the room, she extinguished the lamp and closed the door behind her.

The journey to the station passed too slowly for Christine's liking, and she had spent the majority of it on the edge of her nerves. Whenever the carriage had to slow, she half-expected to come to a complete halt, the doors to open and someone to drag her out, back to the life she was trying to escape. When she had finally emerged from its rickety interior, her bags following her in the care of the driver, she felt the first flutter of relief.

The station was huge, its grandeur overwhelming her, and it took a few moments to catch her breath. Eventually, she regained enough composure to navigate herself to the correct platform. A porter helpfully loaded the more bulky items of her luggage onto a trolley and headed towards the baggage car. As she tried to locate her carriage, she took in her surroundings. The train extended for what seemed like miles in both directions, the plume of steam at its head giving it the appearance of a docile dragon.

After a few minutes' hesitation, she boarded the vehicle and found her allocated compartment, where she stowed her valise neatly and seated herself on the leather seat by the window. The overnight voyage would take her to the north of France; in the morning she would take another carriage to the port. It seemed an eternity before the train finally pulled out of the station, and Christine only allowed herself to relax once the familiar landscape of Paris had blurred into countryside.

She did not sleep much on the journey, catching only a scant few hours. The dreams which had plagued her for so long continued unabated, and she felt certain they would do so until she had reached her destination. It would take a physical ocean for her to be truly separated from her past. Besides, once she was there, she would have an unfamiliar language and local customs to grapple with, which would effectively distract her from her reminiscence.

The journey – from leaving the _Opéra_ to disembarking from the train the next morning – went more smoothly than she had anticipated. By now her notes would have been found, their contents read – all but one of them, at least – but she could not dwell on how her friends might react. Not now she had come so far.

The steam liner was small but sturdy-looking, a little rusty in places, perhaps, but no more than she had expected. It was early yet, and the weather was fine, though there was evidence of dark clouds on the horizon which appeared to threaten rain. Once again her luggage was stowed safely away, this time in the vessel's hold, and as she watched it disappear from sight she forced her suddenly nervous feet to walk up the gangplank and onto the deck. Even at this point, she was wary of the other passengers, avoiding eye contact whilst simultaneously studying their faces for any note of recognition. She had been careful not to be followed, but there was always the possibility of someone coming after her, and she had come too far to be dissuaded now. Finally, as the boat began its slow journey away from the mainland, she felt some of the tension begin to ease.

-w-

An hour or so later, the coast of England was slowly approaching through the mist and drizzle. The previous evening seemed a lifetime ago; she barely even remembered the performance. It was strange: all her life she had loved performing and dreamed of being centre-stage… and yet she had left it behind without a backward glance. The music which had once captivated her and filled her heart to bursting with joy now seemed a hollow and empty noise, as bland and uninteresting to her ears as the dull conversations she had endured for Raoul's benefit.

Only Erik's music could captivate her, its intriguing tendrils of mysterious sound weaving through her mind like threads of silk; only that voice – like her father's violin before it – could send her drifting between the planes of consciousness to a place that was somewhere unearthly and beautiful. Handel, Glück, Mozart… none could compare. He was gone now, the music with him… and even though Erik had condemned himself to Hell a long time ago, Christine could not perceive those melodious harmonies anywhere else but Heaven.

She sighed at her own rambling thoughts; it would not do to lose herself now. She was almost there. Just a little longer before she could set foot on solid, foreign land. Then, and only then, could she allow herself the luxury of tears.

For the second time that day, the weather seemed content to mock her: the rain grew heavier once again. She readjusted her hood and pulled her cloak further around herself, shivering slightly at the new chill in the air. Wind was now buffeting the deck, and a particularly strong gust drew her hood away from her, causing her loose hair to fly wildly about her face. She let out a little shriek of surprise and attempted to calm her unmanageable tresses, loosening her scarf so that she could secure the curls beneath it. The ring, threaded upon its golden chain, became dislodged by the disturbance of the garment, and she reached to carefully tuck it within her bodice.

The gale continued to whistle in her ears, so much so that she barely heard the voice behind her.

"This air will ruin your throat."

She gasped in surprise, as she had not heard anyone approach and thought herself alone. When the wind abated and the stranger chose to speak again, Christine felt certain her ears had deceived her, that she had finally gone insane with grief. The words were so simple and yet so meaningful, and the timbre of the voice penetrated her very being; the absolute impossibility of what she had heard was confounded by the yearning, desperate agony of her heart.

"You should be inside, my dear."

- FIN -

_**A/N: **__Well, that's it. I intended the ending to be a pleasant surprise, so hopefully I have succeeded. _

_Thank you to those people who did review the story, and to any lurkers who may have read without reviewing (due to anonymous reviews being turned off or whatever other reason), I hope you enjoyed it._

_I think this will be my last story for this fandom. I will attempt to finish my other ongoing story, "Sweet Intoxication", before I bow out forever, but I can't promise anything with the way my writing habits fluctuate. (I do write for several other fandoms, equally sporadically, so please feel free to check out my profile for details.)_

_Thank you to everyone who has shared my fandom-life here over the past decade or so. _

_Farewell, my dears._

_**T'eyla Minh**_


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